


Utters

by DirtyMasonJar



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Bartenders, Bisexual Female Character, Coming of Age, Drag Queens, Drama & Romance, F/F, Femslash, Gender or Sex Swap, LGBTQ Themes, Lesbian Sex, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Stripping, Useless Lesbians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-03-26 20:51:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13865772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DirtyMasonJar/pseuds/DirtyMasonJar
Summary: Stan Marsh is in a pickle: she's still feeling the shitty break-up she had months ago with her ex-boyfriend Wendyl and her job at the animal shelter won't cover her rent. Desperate to make ends meet, Stan decides to start stripping. It's not quite what she envisioned for herself at nineteen, but the view of the cute bartender's butt doesn't hurt. F/F Style with a dash of Bunny.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, y'all. Have a lesbian SP stripper AU, because everyone needs a queer girl stripper AU in their life! Anyway, this is a Style fic with a dash of Bunny and a big, heaping spoonful of coming-of-age drama for Stan. I'm not sure how many chapters there will be, but this fic is going to be at least 50,000+ words. Many of the characters are genderbent, Stan and Kyle included. Also, Stan's name is supposed to just be Stan, which will eventually be explained later on in the story. Questions and comments are appreciated! Thanks.

Stan Marsh checked her iPhone for the tenth time since she'd arrived at Davie's Chuck Wagon. Kenny was late. Stan was sat a good ten minutes ago. The brick read booth seat was more than well-warmed; Stan was on her third round of consulting the menu, despite knowing she would order a patty melt. She always ordered the patty melt. 

The conversation she was about to have made her skin crawl and her guts swirl; she almost wished she selected a bar as their spot to meet. At least she could throw back a quick whiskey to calm her nerves. Everyone was tired of hearing about her fucked-up relationship with her ex, and this conversation probably wasn't going to be much different.

It wasn't really a big surprise, Kenny being late. Stan even considered being late herself to avoid an unnecessary wait. The few times that Kenny arrived when they said they would, it was because an emergency demanded it. Their meeting at Davie's had nothing to do with a _real_ emergency, at least by Kenny's definition, but Stan had been a total mess when she'd contacted her friend the previous night via Skype, so she wouldn't have been surprised if Kenny had thought something more severe was going on. 

She'd looked like shit when she contacted Kenny that night: the slick cobalt hair that usually ran down Stan's back, one of her most complimented features, had been pulled up messily when she'd called, making her look troll doll fugtastic; she'd had mascara-smeared raccoon eyes and under eyes that were as fat and puffy as a Corgi butt, and her skin had been noticeably pink between the wine coolers and non-stop crying. Four hard lemonades in and her deteriorated relationship with Wendyl had seemed as severe as the Canadian War to Stan. The entire fifteen-minute conversation she'd had with Kenny had been conducted between choking sobs and long, dramatic swigs of fruity booze. If she'd called anybody but Kenny, Stan would have been mortified. This was Kenny though, a person whose everyday life had all the trappings of a perfect stand-up routine. There was a certain comfort in confessing to someone whose life was objectively more of a hot mess than your own.

Stan was on her third refill and her fifth stink eye from the crotchety waitress serving her when Kenny bustled into the building, dressed out in that orange parka of theirs that they frequently wore on their "homeless days," which had always an uncomfortable way of describing the lazy aesthetic to Stan, considering that Kenny had been homeless at more than one point. Kenny all but pranced over to where Stan was sitting, narrowly avoiding dinging the tray the aforementioned waitress was toting to a different table. Stan was starting to think that someone would spit in their food, or at least skimp on the grilled onions on her burger. The smell of good weed and gas station amber incense flooded Stan's awareness as Kenny settled in next to her and laid their head on Stan's solid shoulder.

"What's your fuckin' problem?" Kenny asked, as they grabbed the laminated menu in front of them and started to scan it halfheartedly. "I thought you were on the verge of some 2007 Britney shit, the way you were acting."

"Glad to see you too," Stan replied. "And…okay, don't get pissed, but—"

"Is this about Wendyl?"

"Well, yeah, but—" Stan silently willed the waitress over, already feeling like the conversation was heading straight to the dumpster.

"Oh my fuckin' God." Kenny popped up from Stan's shoulder and leveled a stern look in her direction.

"It's Wendyl-related," Stan added, an edge of desperation weening its way into her voice. It wasn't the first time she'd bickered with someone about how she was dealing with her breakup. "But not about Wendyl! Dude, it's about my apartment…"

"What about your apartment?"

Stan pinched the bridge of her nose, let the air hang for a moment. Fuck, this was embarrassing. "I don't have enough money for rent."

Kenny crossed their eyes and made a gagging sound. "Okay, I've been there, easy. You can talk to the landlord, get a couple of extra days. Wait, don't you have a full-time job?" They tilted their head in a comical way, their Carolina blue eyes as big as a bobblehead's staring straight into Stan's from behind the fuzzy hood. Kenny's mouth was nowhere to be seen; they usually had the parka strung up ridiculously tight. Stan would have laughed at the image if the subject she was bringing up didn't make her want to piss herself. Wendyl had always been a stickler for finances, and she'd lived with her parents prior to living with Wendyl. It was her first time living alone and she was decidedly failing.

"I do, but, you know, Wendyl moved out."

"But wasn't that a couple month ago?"

"Three," Stan corrected. She smothered the groan that threatened to escape. The waitress was still nowhere to be seen.

"Didn't you get a roommate?"

"I didn't think about it until now. Wendyl was paying rent for a while, so I just forgot, okay? He said he'd pay for three months, and I just didn't realize it had come so quick."

"I guess we haven't talked in a while, huh?" Kenny snorted and began to unwrap their silverware. "So you just threw a pity party, sweetheart?"

Silence. The answer was so obviously a yes, that Stan didn't even know why she'd bother stating it out loud. They'd began their friendship when they were young enough to take a crap in their pants and not be publicly humiliated. Their moms had been friends with each other for even longer, bonded together over their mutual understanding that they could have, should have done better in the marriage department. When Stan's mom was young, they'd put the boys together in the living room (always Sharon's middle class three bedroom two bath house, because Carol's house was well on its way to being a meth lab even then) and strung a rainbow of toy trucks and rattles out for the duo to play with. Kenny and Stan would always stare at each other dumbly, trading smiles, shoving each other's fingers in their mouths, gnawing with soggy gums. Later that would evolve to cowboys, then bottle rockets, then Jackass and IHop and boys, and that one time Stan had ended up sobbing, holding a pregnancy test under her piss stream while Kenny consoled her, sitting on the edge of the sink counter and kicking their dirty work boots, complaining about how those tests were too expensive for poor folk, and thank God for having a penis, and don't worry, they could put together enough money to dodge their Catholic parents and abort that sucker, unless Stan wanted it. Ken had offered her a sip of vodka out of the flask they kept, casually adding in that she figured they'd be drinking either way, whether it was in celebration or agony. Stan, to their relief, had not been pregnant.

In most ways, they understood each other instinctively, reflexive as kicking someone when your knee was whapped. This was one of those moments, and Kenny didn't bother to prod for an answer, just tutted a bit as their neck craned, looking for someone.

"Where's our waitress?" they asked Stan, tapping a long, floral acrylic nail against her knife. "I'm fucking starving."

"I got here way earlier," Stan said. "I think she's kind of mad I've been taking up her table so long." She paused. "She seemed like kind of a bitch anyway, dude."

"Well, that's not gonna work. I'm about to gnaw my hand off. Which one is she?" Kenny asked.

Stan nudged her chin the direction of their waitress, named Rhonda, a woman with a big mess of teased red hair that was clearly dyed with a cheap box of Revlon; she had a big spot on the crown of her head that was lighter than the rest of her hair, and it wasn't natural. Stan had a soft spot for red heads, but the real deal gave her way more goosebumps. She'd had more than one fantasy about the prickle of Dexter's auburn stubble in places, and she'd always envied Christina Hendrick's mane and all those soft, pleasant-looking curves. Rhonda's red hair was early 2000's Myspace vivid, except in that one spot. Kenny nodded in affirmation and got up in their six-inch orange heels that matched their parka perfectly, making the homeless assertion even dumber. Kenny never looked homeless, they just looked fucking weird. Non-stop. It was all just in different flavors. Who owned orange heels?

Kenny started waving lightly in Rhonda's direction. Rhonda was leaning against the counter and dipping a tea bag in a coffee cup idly.

Fifteen seconds went by, and Rhonda had not noticed Kenny. Bad call. Kenny was never rude exactly, but they also never really shied away from what they wanted. Kenny wanted Rhonda to notice her. Now, earlier would have been better, but Kenny had been a waitress before, a damn good one, and she got that accommodating an ass-load of people sometimes didn't work as cleanly as a person wanted. She made a show of waving full-body, arms flailing. Stan scooted further back into the booth, stock-straight against the seat as if that'd hide her from everyone's attention. People around them were eyeing them as they shoved forkfuls of potato into their mouths—not everyone, but plenty. Stan was torn between wanting to bail and dip out the front door and stifling a full-bodied laugh. For now, she was stuck clamping down on her lower lip with her front teeth, holding in the guffaw that would surely guarantee that Rhonda would coat her burger with a big, gnarly loogie.

One minute in and Rhonda's eyes had met Kenny's. She was still dipping that tea bag, her lips one dark, straight line highlighted with rouge. Kenny was practically gyrating, bouncing back and forth on her feet as they waved. Their heels clicked lightly as she moved her weight from one of the balls of her feet to the next, noticeable even over the twangy country that was coming from the jukebox in the corner. Rhonda finally relented and pushed the cup of tea over to one of the customers sitting at the counter near the grill, then made her way over to Stan and Kenny's table.

"Are you ready?" she asked deadpan. The order pad came out pointedly. Kenny finally sat down, smiling pleasantly at Rhonda, and crossed one leg tidily over the other under the table. Stan was silent.

"I want some orange juice," Kenny said. "A lot of pulp if you have it."

"We've got Minute Maid."

"That'll do," Kenny said. "And I'd like the Chuckwagon breakfast."

"How do you want your eggs cooked?"

"Sunnyside. I like `em soft and wet." Kenny batted her eyelashes. Rhonda tutted and scribbled something down. Her gaze flickered over to Stan. "And you?"

"Uh, can I get the patty melt? With onion rings?"

"That'll be extra."

"Okay," Stan said. Mentally, she could just envision her bank account sucking in air. She didn't check her account much. It wasn't that she was exactly bad with money, at least she didn't think so. She'd just gotten out of the habit when she and Wendyl moved in together. They'd merged their finances on Wendyl's terms, of course, and she'd gotten used to handing over X amount of bill money. She would pretty much do whatever she wanted with what was left. Stan hadn't bothered saving.

Probably stupid, but she figured her and Wendyl would be together forever Disney-style, eventually old and crotchety and sitting in rocking chairs with a sunset in the background and a breakfast casserole in the oven. Not that either one of them really knew how to cook, and Stan couldn't exactly peg Wendyl as the rocking chair type.

It didn't matter now. Lost in thought, Stan hadn't noticed that Rhonda had left almost right after the word 'okay' had left her mouth. She was only brought back to earth after Kenny had finished shooting a text and was pointedly staring at Stan, whose glazed eyes were gazing off at nothing. Nothing happened to be a 60-something's big, leather-coated back she realized when Kenny's voice finally captured her attention.

"—I think they'd really like you. I mean, it's not like a very Stan-thing to do, but you'd be able to get out of there real quick. Al would love you. Of course, Al pretty much loves everyone, but you'd probably be up there. I know it sounds crazy to you, but—"

"What?" Stan interrupted.

"What d'ya mean what?" Kenny replied. The orange juice was placed in front of Kenny. Rhonda turned on her heels and immediately left without saying a word.

"I honestly didn't hear anything you said."

Kenny removed the straw bobbling in her cup of juice and set it aside, then took a long gulp. "I said that you could strip."

"Okay, Kenny, come on."

"I'm serious." Kenny's voice was level and easy, a stark contrast to her display earlier, as if she was suggesting something as mild as Stan begging for money from her parents or eating strictly peanut butter sandwiches for the rest of the month. Totally ordinary. Stan mashed her lips together and glanced up, locking her eyes with Kenny's. Definitely dead serious. Stan shoved her fists in her Letterman coat and let the silence hang for a moment.

She kind of hoped that Kenny would return to their phone, get caught up looking at one of like a hundred pictures Butters would send that day. Butters just downloaded Snapchat, and his sunny enthusiasm was made even more blatant when you saw his feed. Clouds shaped like familiar objects, donuts, a short line at the grocery store; Kenny's boyfriend shared everything. Kenny was probably looking at pictures of ladybugs as they calmly discussed stripping.

Ha.

"Look, I know that you grew up with a silver spoon—"

"Kenny, we ate Hamburger Helper half the time—"

" _With_ hamburger, but that's not even what this is about, Stan. Look, I don't think you really know what it means to be broke, which is awesome, and I love you, but part of this whole being piss broke thing is having to scramble some, and sometimes the scrambling ain't fun." They took a sip of juice. Stan's mouth was already open, set to protest, and Kenny silenced her with a firm index finger held up in front of Stan's face.

"Sweetheart, I don't care what you say, you know I'm right. Point of the matter is, you don't have to do this, but it's probably the best idea I can think of right now. Not saying you need to be a career stripper, but it wouldn't hurt for a few months. You could get back on your feet, you could pay rent, you'd have enough bucks to throw around and buy your Jamesons without having to feel guilty about anything but your liver. You could probably even afford a couple of dates, get over Wendyl." Stan's heart sank at those words. "Sounds like a pretty good deal, if you ask me."

"Kenny, I don't know how to strip!"

"Nothing you can't learn. You're fit. You've got good tits. You'd be fine. You've fucked a dude, right?"

"Yes, I've fucked a dude, Kenny."

"There you go, you're golden."

"I'm not going to fuck a dude on stage, Kenny!" Stan spat.

Kenny rolled their eyes. "Of course you're not going to fuck the guy on stage, that's for the private rooms."

Stan kicked at Kenny's ankles.

"Man, I'm kidding! I'm totally kidding! Look, I'm just saying, if you can ride a dick, you're good. Sure, there are strippers that do all the fancy pole stuff, but guys will pay you money as long as you can thrust your pussy at them and pretend you're interested."

Rhonda approached right as Kenny went off about thrusting pussies and slid the plates in front of them wordlessly. The ketchup bottle at the table was just about empty, and Stan had wanted to ask for more, but she resigned herself to ketchup-less fries as the waitress slinked off, clearly upset that those kinds of customers showed up way before their standard arrival of right before closing time.

"I don't know the first thing about stripping," Stan added helplessly. "Even if I do know how to…bump." Kenny's eyes had an almost manic look to them, self-satisfied. Not exactly smug, but bright. Thrilled. Like they'd found the correct answer, coming up with a nugget of gold out of shit, and sharing it and making things right was just about as good as a night with Butters or a weekend spent at one of those douchy electronic music festivals they loved so much. Kenny did have kind of a savior complex thing going on every now and again, had clung to playing as Mysterion long after the other kids had gotten bored with playing superheroes. The sad thing was that their solutions were often spot-on. Despite the impractically long nails and a tendency to neglect sleep in favor of going out to gay bars in airbrushed makeup and glittery dresses with deep v-cuts, Kenny had always been realistic. Painfully so, at times.

"You'll be fine," Kenny said, waving off Stan's concerns with a gentle flick of their wrist. "Al will take care of you. I used to perform there; we're friends." Kenny being friends with the pimp, club owner, manager? Whatever. It didn't mean a whole lot in Stan's eyes. Kenny had plenty of friends, more than Stan could keep up with, and Stan wasn't exactly antisocial. Kenny could chat up someone in a fucking Chili's restroom and consider them a friend. Stan's standards were a bit more exclusive. "I could introduce you to him. And Red's there! You remember Red?"

Red had called Stan a bitch last she remembered because Stan was "lucky enough" to go to prom with Wendyl, but she didn't bother to point that out to Kenny. Stan finished off the last of her burger and rubbed her greasy hands on the thighs of her stonewash jeans. At least she knew that Red was functional—not a crack whore, definitely capable of doing something other than stripping career-wise. Red wasn't like Wendyl by any means, didn't have that kind of nerdy bookishness that characterized Butters. She wasn't a high achiever like some of the other people Stan was in contact with, but she was about on Stan's level. Stan liked to think she was at a pretty good level, except when she was in a place of self-loathing, and then what she wanted became dizzy and desperate, hard to grasp, something between total self-annihilation and needy for hugs and unrelenting soothing. Ol' Bertha was probably more stable than Stan anyway, albeit angrier.

"Yeah, I remember her."

Kenny slurped up a wiggly, drippy piece of egg white and rubbed the excess clinging to their lips with their arm. "I know this wouldn't be what you want to do, but Stan, how much does your job at the shelter pay?"

"Like nine dollars an hour." Stan shoved a cooling fry in her mouth.

"You wanna know how much Red makes? We talk sometimes. Like hundreds, Stan. She told me one night she walked away with fifteen hundred dollars. You could knock out your rent in a day, easy. You're _way_ hotter than Red." Kenny finished chewing on a grisly piece of steak and swallowed. "Don't tell her I said that."

"You said over a thousand dollars?" Stan wasn't sure if she could believe that—not that she didn't believe Kenny, but she didn't know if Red had been telling the truth exactly. Then again, wasn't this whole thing some big cliché anyway? Girl goes broke, or needs to pay for her school, or needs money desperately to put food on the table and pay her rent, and she starts to strip? There had to be some grain of truth in that trope, in the thought that strippers were loaded.

"I didn't see the fifteen hundred, but I did see her tip everyone out one night when one of my shows was there. She had a fistful of cash, Stan. It had to be hundreds, at least."

Stan gnawed on her lip. The thought of getting naked on stage made her want to vomit her patty melt, as if the waitress needed anything else to be pissed about. There was another part of her that was buzzing, though. It only made her stomach squirm more, the combination of grease and soda now poignant and sickening. She couldn't tell if she was excited at the prospect of being able to pay rent without texting Sharon or Wendyl, or if considering Kenny's crazy idea was making her stomach sick. 

"I'll be right back," Stan called, as she removed herself from the booth and sped towards the bathroom, one hand placed firmly on tightly clenched lips. There was another woman in the restroom. Stan leaned over the seat while still standing, the brief moment of concern for the other guest in the bathroom long-gone, and emptied herself into the bowl, groaning between each heavy contraction of her stomach.

Shit, she just paid for that burger. Well, at least it didn't get in her hair. As Stan examined the damage she'd done, bits of chunky vomit scattered lightly across the seat, some even on the wall, she thought back to the source of her anxiousness, and the conversation she'd just had with Kenny. Was she seriously going to go check out the strip club? What would her mom think? She'd probably chastise Stan, then would comfort her with some of her favorite strawberry waffles and a hug. Her mom was a bleeding heart. She'd always been a big softie, even compared to the other mothers in South Park, the small town where Stan and Kenny had grown up.

Wendyl, on the other hand, was not a softie. Wendyl was the opposite.

What would he think? A small part of Stan still quietly hoped that getting back together was on the table, even if it wasn't obvious at that moment.

The door to the bathroom creaked open, and the clicking of smart heels could be heard against the tiles.

"You okay, sweetheart?" Kenny asked from outside the stall, already knowing the answer.

"I'm all right," Stan lied. She grabbed at fistfuls of toilet paper and swiped at the trail she left on the wall.

_Am I seriously thinking about being a stripper?_

\---

Stan quickly realized that the answer to that question was yes—by the end of that same night, as she was washing vegetables for her dinner. (Too expensive. She needed to start buying frozen veggies, but she couldn't bring herself to do it quite yet.) Shit, she was seriously considering being a stripper. Yes, she would text "Big Gay" Al, who owned a club named Utters, and she would meet up with him and go through some sort of trial run. Why Kenny opted to use that specific phrasing instead of calling it an interview, Stan didn't have a clue, until it came to her in a sharp, jagged kind of way, abrupt as Dali arousing from his keys slipping from hand to platter.

She had to try out, like a person would for a sports team, or a play. She had to be good enough at getting naked and appeasing horny dudes. A faint wash of nausea flooded her as she realized this; the paring knife slipped from her left hand and onto the cutting board. She stood there, blank, finally bringing her fingers up to pinch the bridge of her nose.

**Inhale.**

_How I'd let this happen?_

**Exhale.**

_What would Wendyl think? What would her mom think? Would they even be able to find out?_

**Inhale.**

_Fuck, how'd I let this happen?_

Kenny suggested it like it'd be so easy. In-out, a few months, and Stan would be fine. She released her nose and returned to chopping. Maybe she'd send the text after she got the veggies she was going to roast in the oven, knowing that at least if shit hit the fan, she'd have dinner to sulk over.

Five minutes later and she had a tidy pile of asparagus, onion, and tomato tucked away into some aluminum foil, coated in olive oil and garlic. Her salmon was sitting on the counter, covered in coarse salt, waiting to be tossed in a pan and made to sizzle. At least dinner would be good tonight. She plopped on one of the kitchen stools and pulled out her phone. The number Kenny gave her was saved in her contact list, inconspicuous as ever—Al. Just Al. If anyone every crept through her contact list, there was no way they'd have any idea about Al's true identity. Maybe they'd think he was a Tinder date or a former classmate.

Stan started a new text message. Her thumbs lingered over the buttons, her mind reaching desperately for what to say. What was proper 'ask for a job stripping' protocol? It wasn't like she could pull up LinkedIn and find an article on the subject.

_Hey, is this Big Gay Al?_

Scratch that. Probably rude to start with 'big gay'.

_Hey, is this Al? I'm looking for a job. Kenny McCormick told me you're hiring._

That…was okay?

_Hey, is this Al? I'm looking for a job. Kenny McCormick told me you're hiring. I'm wanting to strip. Here's a picture._

Stan attached a fully clothed one, something that showed a little bit of boob. It was a sweater that Wendyl always loved her in, and she knew it made the blue in her eyes look even closer to a rich tanzanite than usual.

She returned to the kitchen and got to work on the salmon, placing it skin down, focusing in on the popping sounds the skillet made as the silver skin crisped up. Waiting for Al's response felt almost as dizzying as the time she had first asked Wendyl out, via text, to the junior high prom. It had taken her all 3rd period to compose the message with her best friend Gary, making a point to add one winking emoji instead of three, and the whole time her heart felt like it was dangling precariously on a single claw in a crane game, dangerously close to slipping out and falling into the plushy snake pit.

Her pulse felt like it had come to a cruel stop as she worked the spatula under the piece of fish, scales rubbing off into the pan. She hadn't added enough oil, and it was starting to stick. The phone was blank, painfully so, and she kept glancing at the gadget, unable to resist the temptation of checking for a response she knew wasn't there yet. Her ringer was on; she would be alerted the moment she was contacted.

What if Big Gay Al didn't respond?

She took her plate of half-scaled fish and vegetables to the living room and settled on the couch. Her phone was left in the kitchen, placed on the counter-top next to the stove. Stan flipped the TV on, and Dee from Always Sunny in Philadelphia greeted her, squawking about the indignity of her role in the gang's plan.

**Click.**

Animal Planet, puppies. Better, so much better. She forked a piece of her fish and shoved it in her mouth, chewing noisily and settled her attention on the TV. Fuck, corgis were cute. The fish was tolerable. This was all going to work out; she could still cook a pretty good piece of salmon, right? It was good enough for her, anyway. Her mom liked her cooking.

On the screen, a corgi was running around, chasing a ferret, yipping as the ferret skittered in and out of its grasp.

**Bzzzt.**

The plate of food just barely made it to the coffee table safely before Stan launched herself from the couch. She skittered over to the phone and tried to unlock it. Her fingers fumbled the password more than once, drawing a groan of exasperation from her and more jerky, desperate thumb movements. On the fourth try, she finally got the screen open. She clicked on the text message icon, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Shit. Shit.

_yeah i love ken doll! are u free Wednesday? I can squeeze u in that afternoon_

Stan went over her schedule mentally, but who was she kidding? It wasn't like the shelter couldn't let her out for a few minutes. She didn't have anywhere else to go. It would take a while to fill up her calendar. She'd done the whole social isolation routine again, and she knew from experience that it would take a while for her to make nice with her friends and make them aware of the fact that she was out of her den of solitude and Halo Top low-calorie ice cream.

_Yeah, Wednesday sounds good._

Her heart was still racing.

\---

According to Carmen Electra's Aerobic Striptease, Stan needed to utilize her lower back muscles properly to thrust and swing her hips in the most effective, muscle-toning manner. According to Kenny, Stan just needed to patent her fuck-me look and throw on the highest heels possible. The path to stripper success was elusive, despite trying to use the library's surprisingly extensive alternative dance cardio section and Kenny's on-the-job knowledge as some sort of guide map.

Stan wasn't sure that either of them was right. She felt like a newborn deer trying to make use of its still sticky, scrawny legs as she flounced around in the heels that Kenny picked out for her. They were rhinestone-coated, gaudy things, 6 inches tall and topped off with a clear plastic strap that looped over the top of Stan's foot. They were "as gorgeous as they were tacky" according to Kenny, who insisted that Stan would be able to get through the door and land the job just by merit of her excellent shoe selection.

"You can tell who's a seasoned stripper based on what she wears," Kenny had told her, passing Stan the Amazon package as if they were handing over the One Ring. "Al will notice."

It was the night before Wednesday and Stan waddled in front of the mirror, cursing herself for not going against Kenny's word. What good was a nice pair of heels if you couldn't move in them? She'd been working on what was supposed to be a tryout performance for the past couple of days, and she still struggled to stay balanced and walk, let alone stride, dance, or strut. What she'd quickly come to figure out was that being a stripper was uncomfortable. Or at least looking like one was.

Stan ran her hands down her thighs in the mirror slowly in a forced, practiced motion, making a point to gaze straight at the mirror, trying to pull off hooded eyes. Selling sexy was challenging. Her lids were smeared with heavy eyeliner drawn into a cat eye, a go-to look that was both manageable and moody, and her charcoal hair was puffed with mousse, thick and wavy, crafted with the tips she snagged from the latest Cosmopolitan she'd picked up at Walgreens. It was like acting, and maybe that made sense. Maybe she was supposed to be a character on stage. Even Kenny, outlandish as they were, did not quite match up with their drag stage persona Princess Kenny.

Princess Kenny demanded attention and adoration from everyone. She was hedonistic, she was bossy, she commanded the room and made it her bitch. She was gloriously for the people, but she was for herself even more so.

Not Kenny. Kenny, the real Kenny, was keen on attention too, like Princess Kenny in some respects, but they always preferred attention from a specific person—Butters. Always Butters, as Kenny wore a sweaty tank after leaving their job at the car shop, Butters sitting on their knee, tie just off-kilter, exhausted from grading papers and crafting lesson plans. And Kenny, surprisingly, was one of the least selfish people Stan knew, at least when it came to family. He grew up as the token "poor kid" in their school, and now he was doing well, making decent money, hit on consistently by both men and women. Most things just rolled off of him; Butters and Kenny were disgustingly in love. They did shit like order pizza every Tuesday night, because they had their show, and they could zing off each other's top three pizza topping orders without taking a moment to consider the subject. Kenny's life was a tornado, but his home life with Butters was an oasis, dead in the center, the eye of the storm. It made Stan sick with jealousy.

It took a few days, but Stan decided on using Sapphire as her stage name. It seemed stripper-y, basic, easy to remember. It was ripe with potential for openers coming from lame dudes she could talk into a lap dance, slurring about how her beautiful name matched her even prettier eyes.

Admittedly, getting dolled up for the job was working wonders on her self-esteem. Not that she really had too negative of a perception of herself on a regular day, but she thought she looked especially nice when she was coiffed and ready to get naked professionally.

Stan swirled in the mirror, marveled at her breasts spilling out of her fringy, aluminum silver push-up, her stripper name, the new identity she'd be crafting. The whole thing was ridiculous, but she felt the vaguest twitch of excitement at the prospect of throwing on an outgoing, flirtatious, hyper-feminine persona—something so different from how she normally behaved: level, easygoing, moralistic when it came to animals and children, capped out with the occasional bout of severe, unwavering doom. Stan didn't know who Sapphire was going to be exactly, but she liked to think that Sapphire was the type that would be different, could manage Stan's problems with the grace that came from being able to parade around like a pageant queen with twice the heel height and half the clothing.

\---

It was finally Wednesday, the day of Stan's tryout, and Stan had not anticipated that traffic would be a problem. Traffic was a problem. Traffic sucked royally. In fact, there wasn't much going on that wasn't putting her panties in a twist, because despite prepping for her interview to the point of making sure to remember to grab a string cheese for a snack (as if she was doing something as mundane as heading to her first day of school), she was really, really late. She pulled into the parking lot ten minutes after the time she and Al agreed upon, worried her multiple layers of face makeup were at risk of sliding right off because of how hard she felt like she was sweating.

Despite the stress, the heavy breathing, the few ebony flyaways that dotted her crown and signaled that she had not used enough hairspray, she felt good. She still was a little stiff, but Kenny had watched her routine, and had decisively informed her that they'd seen "way worse". Normally phrasing an evaluation like that would have been a cause for concern, but she knew it was authentic. Potentially there were girls that were even more robotic than her, and that was a cause for comfort. She didn't want to be the best. She just wanted to make some money and not be the worst.

Stan grabbed her tote full of work supplies (blotting pads, roll-on glitter, makeup, various Bath and Body Works sprays, a curling iron, the works) and heaved it over her shoulder. The strip club was nearly on the opposite side of town from where she lived, which was kind of a relief: the drive would be farther than she preferred, but maybe she'd be less at risk of seeing people she knew? Either way, the parking lot was spacious and fairly empty (probably because it was the early-afternoon) and Stan easily found the location and a parking spot near the back door. She spritzed herself once more with Oahu Coconut Sunset, which made her smell like a Pina colada had a baby with some mild suntan lotion, and exited the car in a flurry, checking her bag as she flounced towards the back door.

She didn't pay attention to what was ahead of her as she strode towards her interview, too caught up in the moment, and bumped heads with bad luck right as she was about to enter. Literally, because another individual was exiting the door just as Stan was confirming that she did, in fact, remember to pack some Naked juice to drink afterward in her bag, and they crashed into each other. A paper coffee cup went flying and managed to hit Stan's chest, splattering the expensive fringe bra she was so proud of wearing. The coffee was so hot that the places the nearly boiling drink splattered felt tender and warm well after the liquid slicked off. Stan immediately recognized that she probably had some burns, and she just hoped that they wouldn't affect her chances. Somehow, magically, Stan had managed to remain standing after the crash, even though she was still getting used to walking in shoes that felt like stilts.

The other person was even less lucky.

The woman that Stan had crashed into lost both her coffee and her balance, falling knee-first onto the cement stairs leading out of the building, and the drink splattered her too, soaking her t-shirt. The crash was loud and sounded painful; it was punctuated by a deep fuck when the woman landed.

Stan was starting to the think that the day couldn't get worse.

"Oh my God, dude, I'm so sorry! Fuck! I'm so sorry!" Stan cried. She made a move to help the other woman up, long streaks of coffee still wet on her chest, the paper cup entirely abandoned.

The other women lingered on her knees for a moment, then finally lifted her head to level an incensed look at Stan, her nose twitching and her lips pursed, as if it took all her self-restraint not to…attack Stan? Yell at her? She didn't know, but the other woman gave off a militant kind of vibe. It felt like she was a ticking time bomb waiting to unload years' worth of aggression.

She was also, much to Stan's discomfort, beautiful.

One side of her head was shaved slightly, one of those alternative undercuts that gave off major gay vibes. The rest of her hair was thick and could only be described as a fairytale princess kind of mane—copper curls everywhere, as explosive as that look Stan received and as gorgeous as something she'd see in one of those hair-cut magazines they had at salons. It looked as wild as fucking Braveheart. The woman's curls were perfect. Her eyes were a pretty, diluted sort of green, the color of a creek, almost water. They didn't match with her stern brows, or the Blush and Blu t-shirt she was wearing, or the way she seemed to embody the color and sharpness of a Mondrian painting, but Stan liked them.

The longer Stan stared, the more at a loss for words she was, which only seemed to make things worse. Shit, she was even _taller_ than Stan. The redhead's eyes narrowed.

"Watch where you're going, dumbass!" she finally spit. The other woman pushed herself up off the stairs and crossed her arms tightly. Her knees were scratched and bloody; there were going to be some scabs. Stan tried to come up with some sort of response, but she couldn't find her words, just glanced at the other person's body for injuries. She was starting to feel nauseous. The redheaded woman pushed past her, muttering under her breath, something about fucking newbies and coffee and other things that were out of Stan's earshot.

Stan fumbled inside her tote again. At least she remembered a Tide-to-Go pen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan meets Big Gay Al and tries out a few drinks. The bartender gets her worked up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter! Happy Passover! Time for some interaction between Kylie and Stan. : ) Happy holidays!

For a strip club with the name Utters, the place was surprisingly swanky.  Stan had anticipated big pictures of naked woman, velvet seats with suspicious stains, faux leather and large swashes of black and red—masculine and gaudy.  Utters was minimalist.  The back wall was stripped down wood and the remaining walls were a faint turquoise.  Instead of chandeliers, there were Edison lightbulbs of varying shapes and sizes dangling from strings, and the seats were boxy, some cream, some pitch black, others a striped combination of both.  The stage was cream-colored too and well-lit, as was the bar.  The tackiest bit was the occasional splash of rhinestones on the décor and furniture, like how the entire edge of the bar was coated.  There were even random plants—succulents tacked to the walls, some in jars, others boxed in with wood.  The smatters of green plants came together like a painting.

Stan had based her perception of strip clubs off what she’d seen on Grand Theft Auto and mafia movies.  This place was nothing like that.  She had no qualms with bars, but she’d never been to a strip club.  Strip clubs, in theory, were exotic and unfamiliar.  Walking into Utters felt like she was walking into her aunt Lola’s house.  Lola was always going on about Martha Stewart and Target, skinny martinis and how her kids were driving her crazy.  This place felt very Martha Stewart and Target, as if it was pulled from a Pinterest page.  The familiarity gave her some sense of relief.

Stan sat her bag down in one of the chairs and wandered up to the bar.

“Hello?” she called, wondering if the bartender was grabbing for something in the shelves below. The place was relatively empty. There was just one woman swirling around a pole towards the center of the room and the overly-enthusiastic group of young college guys hooting at her.

Nobody answered. She peered over the bar, leaning on top of the smooth surface, feet dangling.

“Oh, honey, what are you doing?” a breathy voice asked from behind.

Stan startled, immediately jumping back to the floor, wobbling slightly on her heels.

She turned to meet the man that had addressed her.  He was _hairy_.  _So_ hairy. His chest was entirely covered in dark, coarse, curly hairs.  It was easy to tell because the man’s floral pattern shirt had the deepest v-cut Stan had ever seen.  He offered her a meaty hand to shake. Stan accepted the hand and gripped firmly; it felt oddly professional.

“ _Helloo_ , it is _so_ nice to meet you! My name’s Al, but you _already know that_. Welcome to my bar!” Al said, gesturing to the space around him.  “We’re a little empty right now, but we’re absolutely stuffed at night. If you’re wanting to bring in some more cash, you found the _perfect_ place. You’re such a cutie, too! Kenny told me a lot of great stuff, said you’d be the perfect naughty girl-next-door type! And look at you, you fit the bill to the tee! Here, let’s get you back to the private rooms, talk over some things. I think I want a drink first, though. Do you want anything?”

“I…um…” It probably wasn’t a good call to reply with the type of enthusiasm for alcohol she was feeling.  Luckily the silence didn’t lull for long before Al cut her off.

  
“You know what, we should get the drink special! Ah, you need to see Kylie work her magic, she is a miracle worker when it comes to liquor!  Kylie!” Al’s voice carried throughout the space, briefly drawing the attention away from the woman on stage, who was now bobbing up and down in a split.  Her shimmery top had been abandoned, left over by the pole.

Stan’s heart began to thump quicker as she took notice of the woman’s small ruddy nipples and heavy breasts. Jesus, that was way more than a handful.  Shit, she hadn’t even _thought_ about the whole having to be around hot naked women component of the position.

“ _Where is that girl_?” Al said.  “Did you see someone pass you on the way inside?”

“Er, yeah—” Stan replied. Her gaze dropped to the floor.

“Did she have big, red hair?” Al questioned.

“Well, it wasn’t that big…”

“Honey, that hair is as big as Kim Kardashian’s _ass_.  Now let me go grab her… _Jesus, I’ve been warning her about just walking off post_ ,” Al muttered.  He made his way back through the door. Moments later he returned with the woman that had been a part of the earlier collision. Kylie, apparently. Her t-shirt was still dotted with coffee splatters, which Stan assumed was probably why her mouth was tightening into a thin line as the duo approached.

“ _Look who I found_!” Big Gay Al said, as he reached up and grabbed Kylie’s shoulder. Al gave Kylie's shoulders a big shake. “Kylie, have you had a chance to meet Stan yet?”

Kylie got behind the bar and grabbed the limp white rag that was sitting on the counter beneath the bar.  She swiped it across the bar half-heartedly, smearing a line of condensation. “Yeah, we had the pleasure of meeting earlier.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Sorry for freaking on you. I can be—”

“Passionate?” Al offered.

“ _Passionate_ ,” Kylie repeated deadpan, planting her chin in her free hand. “This is one of my favorite shirts and that fucking hurt.” She glanced Stan and frowned faintly.

Unrelenting nausea. Stan’s stomach felt like it was fluttering, and _oh no_ , _oh **shit**_. She was not going to be attracted to her coworker already. Stan forced her eyes to focus on Kyle’s nose so she didn’t have to look into her eyes, but that failed spectacularly.  Her heart still felt like it was going a mile a minute.

Since when were nose freckles _so_ cute?

Stan fixed her gaze on the wooden wall behind Kylie.

“I’m sorry, I—uh…I can help? I can—your shirt,” She offered, already critiquing herself internally, wanting to just plant her hand on her face and hide behind it.  Her offer was bombing hard.

“Excuse me?”

Stan returned to her bag and brought it back over, then proceeded to dig.

“Tide Pen. Do you want to use it?” The pen was placed on the counter in front of Kylie.  Kylie picked it up and shook it.

This time Stan was rewarded with a big grin. The moment was punctured by the sound of “If You Like Pina Coladas” playing distantly.  Kylie started working at the spots, attention now focused on her task rather than Stan.  Stan took a deep breath.

“Oh, that must be the vendor I was chatting with about those darn chicken wings! Be right back! Kylie, get us some drinks going, sugar,” Al ordered, as he rushed off towards a hallway. “Thanks for being so patient, sweetheart!”

Stan slumped into one of the seats at the bar and looked at Kylie expectantly.  A drink was sorely needed, even if it was just a boost to help her discern what pet name went with who, or if that was even a thing. Kylie finished up with the pen and pushed it back over to Stan.

“Thanks,” she offered, as she reached under the bar and pulled out a glass. “So, you don’t want a beer, do you?” She started shoveling ice into the glass.

“No, no! I mean, I like beer, I just… _no_.  Yes, I want a cocktail.”

“Good, because I wasn’t planning on getting you one. Al doesn’t trust women that order beers at strip clubs,” Kylie offered easily.  She loaded a tall steel glass with sprigs of rosemary.

“What?”

“Okay, I’m mostly bullshitting, but Al really likes people that are into what’s going on at his club.  He _really_ likes this place a lot. He treats it like a pet project, which is kind of sad, but it matters to him a lot for some weird reason. So he’s not going to give you a demerit or anything for drinking a beer, but you’re going to get bonus points for having whatever drink we make to go along with the bar, okay? We have _themes_ , Stan: dirty mermaid, dirty firewoman, naughty nurse.” She poured a generous portion of vodka into the glass she was mixing in. “So, is Stan even your name? Because if you’re introducing yourself with your stripper name already, that’s weird.”

Stan clenched her fingers around her knees under the table. Kylie was cute, but why did she have to be so mean? Stan kind of wanted to phase her commentary out, but a larger part of her attention was still compelled by the woman she’d ran into earlier. There was a perfectly hot naked woman behind Stan and plenty of gaudy décor to focus in on, but for some reason she still found the woman and her cocktail-making to be the most interesting distraction at the interview.

Had to be Kylie’s eyes. Maybe? They looked like Aztec gold now, the hazel morphing—intoxicating and rich, overflowing with stories and a history worth knowing, which was way too much. Stan didn’t know anything about this woman, other than she really liked the shirt she was wearing and that she knew how to make drinks, _and_ that she was pretty.

“I’m just going let you know now: Stan is _not_ going to work with those guys. They’ll think you have a dick. Then you’re going to have to deal with transphobes avoiding you or chasers, pick your poison.” She rattled the cocktail shaker with the ease of having done the tasks hundreds of times before. “I mean, what made you think to use Stan anyway? Most of the girls go with a state or the name of a car, like Lexus, or Dallas, or Sapphire. Gemstones and cities.”

Stan fidgeted with a cocktail napkin.  “Stan is my real name.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“No, really.”

“So did you transition, or-“

“NO!” Stan’s fingers clenched around the napkin tighter until her nails were digging into her palm.

“Well, nothing to be ashamed of, it’s perfectly fine to transition. I’m an ally, you know,” Kylie said easily as if she was repeating a recording. She topped the finished drink off with another sprig of rosemary and pushed it over to Stan.

Stan released the napkin and move onto the drink, bringing it to her lips and drinking it more delicately than she normally would, trying to avoid having to redo her lipstick. It already took her way too long to get the liner right. She licked her lips and met Kylie’s eyes.

“You shouldn’t be so demanding like that,” Stan chastised. “It makes people uncomfortable. It’s _rude_. Like why would you assume I transitioned just because my name is Stan? Like you shouldn’t make assumptions at all, until people-“

“There’s nothing wrong with transitioning!” Kylie interrupted. Her shoulders were tight and her lips were formed into a snarl.  Despite the stirrer being made of metal, it looked dangerously close to snappy under the pressure of Kylie’s clenched fist.

“I _know_ , I get that, but you should just let people tell you their stuff when they want to,” Stan said. Her pose was more confident now, shoulders thrown back, chin tilted upward defiantly. Who was this other woman, making her feel small, even though she was being an invasive asshole? “They should be able to say stuff when they want to say stuff!”

The conversation lulled into silence. Their eyes were locked, gazes challenging. Kylie finally backed down. “Fine, Stan. Whatever. How did you get your name? If that’s not too _pushy_.”

Stan wasn’t sure that she wanted to tell the story. She was agitated, and it wasn’t like she owed Kylie anything.  Sure, she spilled coffee on Kylie’s shirt, but that was just an accident. She’d already sort of groveled and felt bad about it, it wasn’t like she’d been as obnoxiously bitchy as the bartender. Lord knows how she ever got any tips. Still, probably wasn’t best to make enemies with a future coworker on her tryout day, even if she was a bitch.

Stan slugged down the last sip of her drink and relented, “My dad is weird. And, uh, this is good. Really good?” She picked the sprig of rosemary out of the drink. “Isn’t this the stuff they put on the bread at Macaroni Grill?” Kyle snorted. “It’s weird, but I like it.”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, it is. It’s rosemary, they put it in a lot of things,” Kylie responded, relaxing, finally sitting the stirrer down. She leaned against the bar, closer to Stan, catching Stan’s attention with the hint of cleavage that was only made obvious in that position. Stan reluctantly forced her eyes away and brought her attention back to the conversation.

Coworkers. They were _coworkers._ Stan reminded herself of this a few times. Coworkers and relationships didn’t mix. Also, hadn’t she been pissed at Kylie moments earlier? Somehow it had melted away so easily. Weird.

Oh god, why was she already thinking about relationships? _Too soon_.

“So, your name?” Kylie prompted. She was still bossy, still aggressive. Maybe she hadn’t let go of the conflict as easily. Stan found herself wanting to struggle to appease the pretty bartender, despite her not being at fault, which wasn’t her MO for most people. She liked to keep things chill as much as possible. She normally dished out the same level of respect that people gave her.

“Okay, so, my dad. He’s kind of…my parents thought I was going to be a boy? The doctors mixed up my ultrasound with someone else’s.” Stan rubbed her forehead out of habit, then promptly stopped herself. Her makeup felt like a very delicate thing to maintain, despite all the setting spray she’d spritzed on at a Youtube vlogger’s suggestion. Kylie stiff posture was starting to melt, apprehension giving away to disbelieving amusement. Thank God.

“Look, yeah, I know it sounds crazy, but a lot of crazy shit happens in South Park. It’s like one of those weird small towns you see on TV specials. I can’t even begin to tell you all the fucked up that has happened to my friend Kenny. They’ve been in _so_ many near-death experiences. But yeah, switched the ultrasound…and my dad was pissed. “

Kylie sighed. “Dude, I know how that is. Let me introduce you to my mom, Jesus. Sometimes it feels like she could start World War III all by herself.  She’d always start rallies about dumb things. She eventually got kicked out of the PTA. Hey, do you want another?” She rattled the empty drink. Stan immediately nodded. Couldn’t hurt.

“My dad, uh, has kind of a drinking problem? It gets annoying. He was wasted, though. My mom passed out right after I was born and he got a hold of the birth certificate. He went with the name they originally picked when they thought I was a boy. Something about how I was meant to be Stan no matter what, or how dare those fucking health professionals try to trick him.  He still insists that he was making a stand against dishonest medical practices. For a while, he was talking about trying to sue the doctor and I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s an idiot. My mom apparently threatened divorce when they left the hospital.”

Kylie shrugged. “I don’t blame her. I would have wanted to kick his ass honestly. Not that I have any desire to have kids. They’re kind of nasty—sticking their hands in their mouths and all that _snot_.” She wrinkled her nose. “ _Ugh._ Though I did take care of my baby brother a lot and he was okay. He always seemed more mature, though. Sorry about your name, dude.”

“It’s all right,” Stan replied, glancing over to the hallway that Big Gay Al had disappeared to. It was about time to escape the situation now that they were kind of okay. She wanted to get out of there before she put her foot in her mouth again. Or spilled another drink.

“If it’s any sort of reconciliation, I _like_ your name.” Kylie offered. “And here’s your second drink. It’s a new one I’m working on. Tell me if you like it.”

Stan took a delicate sip, making a point to ease up on her pace. “Holy shit, this tastes like a Push-Up Pop! I loved them as a kid!”

“Me too!” Kylie agreed. “You like it?”

“It rocks!” Stan added enthusiastically. She took another sip. Kylie was glowing; yeah, Stan was forgiven.

“Stan, you ready to go?” Al called from the corner, waving in his direction. “Come here, gorgeous, let’s get you back to our private rooms!”

Stan glanced down at her drink pitifully and took one last sip. She gathered her things and turned to head in Al’s direction.  Even the slight buzz couldn’t muddle the way her pulse was absolutely racing in her ears. She’d been practicing all week, but the moment of truth was infinitely more terrifying.

“Hey, Stan?” Kylie said, just as Stan was about to take off.

“Yeah?” she replied.

“Do good so I can make you a victory drink,” Kylie’s gaze ran over Stan. "I have another one I want you to try." She averted her eyes quickly and got to work on pretending to clean up the creamsicle cocktail.

“Yeah, that sounds great!” Stan answered enthusiastically, unable to restrain the excitement that had wormed its way into her voice. She waved nervously and turned back around, hoping that Kylie was looking at her butt. Admittedly the week of video striptease workouts had done her ass some good. She had a little more bounce in her step as she made her way back towards the private rooms.  Maybe too much bounce—she almost slipped.

She _had_ to get this job.

 


End file.
